


Carry On

by Balder12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexualized Violence, Show level violence, Suicidal Ideation, dubcon, past Dean/Tessa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5903992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/pseuds/Balder12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amara reminds Dean of someone he used to know.  Coda to 11.11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry On

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [SPN Pairing Bingo](http://spnrarepairbingo.tumblr.com/), for the square "Pining."

It wasn’t about sex, this thing with Amara. Everything Dean had told Cas about her was true, but it was incomplete, a series of words too thin to contain the idea. Like trying to describe a night of A+ fucking to a guy who’d never touched a woman, or a cheeseburger to a lifelong vegetarian. You had to be there.

And Dean had been there, boy had he ever. He kept being there, wrong place, wrong time, pinned down by the sight of her. The face changed, but the eyes were always the same. Amara’s latest form was pretty, real pretty, but this started long before she’d gotten herself a low cut dress and cheek bones that could cut diamond. Dean wasn’t that much of a push-over, anyway. Half his job was killing pretty women, or at least things that looked like them.

Dean lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling as the hours ticked by, pointedly not thinking about Amara. Somewhere around 3am he fumbled for his dick and tried to picture her naked, more out of spite than any real interest. Maybe if he got off to her he’d get her out of his system. But there was a sour knot in his stomach, and he stayed limp in his hand.

As he flopped back, sweaty and miserable, some vicious, unwelcome part of his brain pictured Amara on the rack, projecting the image against the screen of his closed eyes in technicolor. He’d thought he’d locked that part of himself down securely again when he lost the Mark: the part that made him hard when he peeled the skin off a monster during some cheap excuse for interrogation, the part that had been a demon long before he ever met Cain. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed when that fantasy left him just as cold as the first.

The infection was deeper than lust could penetrate, and harder to cut out. He’d felt the same dull ache after his dad died, this terrible, hollow pining for a place he’d never been and a lover he’d never known. He’d taken it down to Hell with him, and he’d brought it back up to Earth.

He’d finally put a name to it the day Tessa kissed him in Greybull. She was the one who got away. If only he’d gone with her the first time they met, when he’d still had the chance … but instead he’d rambled on, straight down to Hell, and spent forty years wrestling with an unpleasable old bastard with a taste for sadism. He might as well have stayed at home. He went to Heaven, and got hounded by angels and bullshit sibling rivalry. He went to Purgatory, and got the tepid satisfaction of dispatching other people to the Great Beyond. “You murder a monster in monster heaven, where does it go?” Cas asked him once. Dean didn’t know then and he didn’t know now, but he’d envied them all the same.

Famine told him he was dead inside, but Famine was wrong. Dean wasn’t dead inside, he just wanted to be. He wanted _her_. He’d waited for Tessa for years, he realized now, though he’d only ever admitted it to himself when he was so eyeball-deep in whiskey that he could pretend later he hadn’t really meant it. She’d never come back to him, and eventually he’d stopped hoping she ever would. By the time he’d killed her he’d figured out she was just another fucked up God-bot with a lot of baggage and no more of a bead on the truth than he had himself.

Amara, though, she had all the answers. She looked at him with Tessa’s eyes, and the sweet jolt of oblivion burned like bourbon on her lips. When Dean was with her, she cast the cool shadow of death over his soul, and he could imagine what it might be like, at long last, to let it swallow him down.

Dean reminded himself daily that given the chance Amara would tear down the planet and devour every living thing on it. He reminded himself her goals were monstrous, and that it was his duty as a Winchester to stop her. And yet as he lay there raw-eyed and sleepless, he couldn’t keep himself from dreaming of the endless silence the Darkness would cast over Creation: Heaven and Hell, Earth and Purgatory, all empty at last. No more pain, no more fear, no more endless fucking merry-go-round from one plane of existence to the next and then back again, just to start over one more time at square one, a little sadder and a little more cynical. No more hope and no more disappointment. How could Dean say no to her reign? There’d be peace when she was done.


End file.
